Patches
by narquoise
Summary: Relieved at John's recent discharge from the hospital after nearly a year of hospitalisation following a life-threatening accident, Sherlock has to come to terms with the gaps in his best friend's memory, and take John back piece by piece.
1. 19 June 2016, Sunday

_19 June. Sunday._

They say time passes by so quickly when you're having fun. And look how much fun I'm having, sitting here, wondering if I spent the last seven months productively? I barely even remember it all. Perhaps it had passed by faster than I had thought.

Lately, Harry's been asking how I am. While I'm admittedly hesitant to even reply to her — or even ask how she knew I wasn't feeling alright — I've been telling her the same old thing. The same old clichéd response. _I'm okay._ And I am. I know I am. I just don't understand why everyone I know's been acting weird around me.

"Don't you mind them, dear," Mrs Hudson cuts in as she pours me my second cup of tea. "The cases you and Sherlock have been trying to crack have been taking up too much of your time. I barely see you boys around anymore, and it _has_ been getting dreadfully quiet."

_Sherlock_. "Sherlock?"

"Oh, he's run off somewhere. God knows you don't eat well — I hope he's gone to get groceries; there's nothing edible in the fridge!" She assumes I'm asking about him. But at the mention of this aspect of his character, I remember who he is in a flash. _Sociopath. Freak. Consulting detective. Best friend. Genius._

No one really takes the time to get to know him. I really can't blame them. In fact, I'm starting to feel alienated by the others for being the only one aware of his particular habits, especially the ones at home. Recently, he's left a tightly sealed jar of human eyeballs soaked in formalin under my bed. I can't say that I wasn't surprised but the odd smell and the fact that those eyes looked just like Sherlock's caught me off guard. I wasn't aware that I screamed. I hid his cigarettes in two layers of Ziploc bags in the cistern as punishment. I didn't see the end of his petulance until I finally fell asleep. I didn't need his complaints; I needed sleep.

I'm not sure if I've said my reply. I'm not even sure if I'd continued the conversation, but the way she's chuckling warmly at me tells me that I have.

"Tea's good," I say plainly. Mrs. Hudson can only smile at me and pat my shoulder like mum would, and she leaves with the tea tray. "W-w-wait! One last biscuit!"

She's tempted to reprimand me. _"Oh, John, you've had your fill." _She hands me the biscuit instead. I'm just glad that I can finish my last cup of tea and the biscuit I have in my hand— "Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson," in a hurried pace.

Wait, what?

Oh. He's back.

With not one, not two, but _absolutely no _grocery bags.

He does, however, have a folder, which doesn't strike me as odd at all. He's always carrying something, or mumbling to himself about the next big case that Lestrade gives him. It's probably something related to it. I don't want to interfere. I'd like to agree with the general opinion that he's just being full of himself, going everywhere trying to prove himself the cleverest person in the room at every affair that he really has no right to interfere with. Thing is, I'd rather just focus on tea, so when he marched in with that folder I merely glanced up at him just to see what he was carrying. Hopefully nothing dangerous.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson greeted as he marched in. His most friendly reply was a very quick side glance, and off he marched in the direction of his room. Was he upset? Mrs. Hudson could only sigh as she watched that man speed off. "I just can't understand that young man."

"Neither do I." She pats my shoulder and goes downstairs with the tea tray.

As the silence of the flat began to encroach me, all of these ideas sped through my head in an attempt to fill the void. Sherlock was an easily bored fool. That much was true. Not five minutes into settling back into ordinary life _without _a case after solving one, he begins to act like a child. The pain of hearing his voice becomes very gradually unbearable, until you suddenly feel the urge to punch him. I think I may have tried to, but then I remember that about the best I could do was attempt to stand up, then sit back down again.

Maybe it wasn't a case.

Maybe it was something important. Personal.

Maybe his cravings for cigarettes drove him mad.

I checked the cistern to see if he'd managed to sneak any. None of them were moved at all. The wrappings were still clearly sealed around the boxes of toxic sticks, and the two Ziploc bags were still very much intact.

"What's the matter?" I call out to him. I don't hear him react. "Sherlock?"

His "Hm?" is a muffled one.

"Did something bad happen?"

"No."

End of story. That was usually how it went.

Now that he was inside his room, I suppose it would be best to stay quiet myself.

But I felt differently today.

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Are you all right?"

He doesn't reply.

I guess _that's _the end of story I was looking for.


	2. 23 June 2016, Thursday

I'm not a stranger to nightmares. I've started seeing Ella again. On Mycroft's counsel. It's not like I have a say in the matter, and it's not like it isn't helping. Because it has, to some degree, helped me get over the worst of my migraines and nightmares. She's been going on about it being all a part of life after seeing war.

But war isn't pink. Or South London. A mobile phone.

"_It's time to choose a side."_

My head's done that thing where it leaves me in an indescribable state of some sort. It's blinding. There are images — vaguely familiar images — flashing through my head. I've probably been working too hard. Need to set some time aside for a holiday away from all this.

I had an appointment with Ella. Called in telling her my headaches were coming back again.

"One never really gets over it," she tells me. "You came to tell someone about how you're feeling, and not a lot of people will understand that you're going through pain. I can't help you if you don't tell me what you saw. I need to hear everything, John." Straight-faced, professional, and detached — but being a therapist, there's only so much distance you can put into helping your patients. She's always warm, and I'm not sure whether to loathe her for it or not. I am prepared to believe her. But I remember being in the midst of the gunfire, the gore, and the death of innocents and gunmen alike. _Still some hesitation, _she writes on her legal pad.

"I had the same dream again," I begin. "Not like the other dreams. This one was exactly the same as the most recent one."

It always starts out the same. We are in a small village. Lieutenant Grier has been shot. Chances of him surviving his injuries are becoming smaller and smaller as the hostiles continue to open fire. I tell him to lie low so I can work on him. They'd shot clean through his pleural cavity. There's not much I can do about it; he's already lost two pints of blood and a punctured lung filling with blood isn't helping his cause.

"Captain Jones and Corporal Mellar provided supporting fire. They managed to take down two or three hostiles, but we left before they had the chance to regroup. Another carried Grier's body. I stopped paying attention to pack the kit and fire a few shots back."

I have long been accustomed to this. To _death. _It's not unusual to see a man bleed to death in front of me. It's not unusual to feel failure for not having saved one life to spare me from the helplessness of seeing so many others lose theirs. The men with the guns, the innocents — there's no difference.

But there's pasty little boy who ran into the fray. A two year old boy amidst the sea of Afghans. The haunted look on their faces is their common denominator.

"'Run! For God's sake, run before you get yourself shot!' I tried to call out to him. Nothing. He's miles away, and he's staring at something I can't see."

Then time stops around him. He's the only thing that's moving now.

"Everyone just… disappears."

The boy's brown curls hang over his face as he's leaned over something. An animal. A dog. Corgi.

"I ask him if he's alright, but still no response. He looks up at me—"

He looks up at me.

"He looks up at you, and?"

"Blue-green." The novelty of the shock doesn't seem to be wearing off. "His eyes were so crisp, and they stared right into mine— It was… I just can't. I can't explain it."

"_Sherlock! Get away from—"_

"And all of a sudden, these hands jerk the boy away backwards. I fall back in fright. Con… Concrete? I'm not in Afghanistan anymore. This is… This is London. A car's hit the dog and killed it. It was lying down on the ground with its bones in strange positions now that they were broken. He looked like he tried to push him away from the street."

"_Mum! Mummy! Gladstone!"_

"_Mycroft, please, get your brother in the house before he gets himself killed!"_

I don't remember this. In fact, I don't remember Sherlock having told me about any of this happening to him. I would never come to imagine the extent of Sherlock's facial expressions until I saw his young self on the ground.

"_We'll get you a new dog, okay, pumpkin?"_

"_NO! HE HAS TO BE ALIVE!"_

Everything starts changing again. My view's changed. The sky's clear, littered with a few clouds. It takes me a while to realise that I'm on the ground, and there's a humming sound, clattering, I don't know what to make of it. Sherlock is bent over me. The look of horror hasn't changed.

He doesn't cry, but as my vision flickers away, I can hear two screams coalesce into one. _"NO! HE HAS TO BE ALIVE!"_

"And then I wake up."

"That's all?"

"How much more is there to tell? That I wake up in cold sweat every time?"

"How about when you aren't sleeping? How are the 'flashes' you have when you're going about your day?"

I don't know. "Bad."

"John, yo—"

"They're bad. It's simple. I take a mild painkiller to deal with the nagging headaches. They go away."

_Lingering trust issues_, she scribbles down.

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: <em>_I really do apologise for the hiatus. I've had a mumbo-jumbo of things to do and, well, I've kind of gotten over the worst of it._

_Next chapter will come soon. Don't you fret. Feedback and/or violent reactions are always welcome. ;)_


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